


Psychedelic Disparity

by Everlind



Series: Jockat AU [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: High School AU, Humanstuck, M/M, and stringbean John with a skateboard, featuring a buff football playing Karkat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 16:41:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1192329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hearing ‘John Egbert’ over the speakers could mean anything from that morning’s unannounced fire alarm to the crazy purple smoke in the chemistry labs, or the dismayed shrieking in the girl’s bathroom (or boy’s bathroom, or teacher’s bathroom, he seems to have a rotation set up for that).</p><p>And guess what, as per tradition the principal had called over the PA system earlier: ‘John’. Just that, spirit utterly shattered under John’s merciless thirst to feed his Prankster’s Gambit. (<i>Hey, hey, Vantas, looks like your boyfriend is in trouble again. When isn’t he, is the fucking question.</i>) That and cheerleader practise was abruptly cancelled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psychedelic Disparity

It’s too fucking cold for this horseshit. Another ten minutes and your balls are going to freeze right off. It’ll be a fucking tragedy, you’re sure. Somehow you’re still sweating. The back of your red jersey is drenched, sticking to your spine and moisture is collecting at the top of your tailbone, before running down into your crack. Nice. 

Speaking of nice. Across the field, past the blurs of movement and the benches is- is— what is he _doing_? Oh god, no. You’re going to kill him. That’s a skirt. He’s wearing a fucking skirt over those baggy jeans of his. Also yelling something, you can’t hear what exactly, but it must be pretty bad because further down the field Tavros trips, falls and doesn’t get up again. At least he’s not holding up a sign this time (first official game of the year, it had said: LET’S GET PHYSICAL. He’d been blasting Madonna from a shitty boom box. They’d banned him from the stadium. Till this day John insists that it had been a cheer, because the back of the sign had read:  _Get down, get hard, get mean_ ⎪ _Let’s get physical_ ⎪ _And beat that other team!_  in hasty scribbled pen). 

You’re still frowning at the spectacle he’s making when Jake slams into your side and fucking piece of piss hurling  _FUCK_  you’re going to maul his ass to hell and back.

 

*

“Kid’s bad for your focus, man,” Rufioh points out as you both wrench your helmets off, winded and heaving for breath. All around you the rest of the team is doing the same.

“And yet I still served your own ass to you,” you point out, ruffling fingers through your sweat plastered curls. “Bon appetit motherfucker.”

“Just saying…” he goes, holding up both hands placatingly.

It’s cold and you’re cooling down fast, you should really go shower. Instead you find yourself ignoring coach Slick’s warning bark of your name as you jog up to the bleachers.

“Hey, you glorified crust of discharge,” you call up at him.

“Hi, Karkat,” John goes, grinning.

Then it’s just a hop-skip-leap (your heart clenches in fear, the first time he did that his foot caught on the last bench and he cracked two ribs hitting the field. You’d just been dating for a week) and then he’s launching himself at you. Automatically you open your arms to catch him - _oomph_ \- and then you’re holding him. John’s forearms bang into your shoulder pads as you do a half twirl to slow his momentum. He’s kissing you before you come to a halt. John smiles against your lips. You hitch him closer; one arm slung under his ass, the other around the small of his back, helmet dangling from your wrist. Behind him his legs kick at the air as he automatically counterbalances, even as his hands cup your face. Your eyes slip shut and your mouth moves against his. Warm, languid and really fucking good. It sends a thrill through you, a whiplash of need straight to your groin and just then John parts his lips more to let you in. You groan against his mouth as your tongue slides against his.

John breaks the kiss with a gasp, noses into your hair as you let your chin drop to pant for air against his throat.

“Ew, gross. You’re sweaty,” John complains. “Put me down.”

You do, making sure he’s found his footing before letting go. Like this he’s a little shorter than you. Slighter and lanky. John grips the swell of your biceps appreciatively before stepping back.

“Where did you even get that?” you ask, gesturing at the scrap of fabric around his waist, not sure if you want to know. If the little shit hadn’t been your damn boyfriend, you’d still have known John solely through his reputation as the culprit whose name is routinely called over the PA system. Just his name, at that. ‘John Egbert’ would be spoken in this resigned, tired voice. It spoke of shattered dreams and crushed standards. Clearly the principal had long lost hope of ever redeeming his delinquent ass by calling him into his office. But rules are rules, so he’s called in regardless.

Hearing ‘John Egbert’ over the speakers could mean anything from that morning’s unannounced fire alarm to the crazy purple smoke in the chemistry labs, or the dismayed shrieking in the girl’s bathroom (or boy’s bathroom, or teacher’s bathroom, he seems to have a rotation set up for that).

And guess what, as per tradition the principal had called over the PA system earlier: ‘ _John_ ’. Just that, spirit utterly shattered under John’s merciless thirst to feed his Prankster’s Gambit. ( _Hey, hey, Vantas, looks like your boyfriend is in trouble again._  When isn’t he, is the fucking question.) That and cheerleader practise was abruptly cancelled. 

John just taps the side of his nose and sort of… swishes it. The skirt. Tries to, more like. Seeing as he’s still wearing baggy jeans clinging precariously at his narrow hips, with a generous band of patterned boxer shorts peeking from the top and a slouchy hoodie to finish it -it doesn’t really work. The swishing. More like feeble flopping. Fucking hell. The skirt’s zipper didn’t close the whole way and if he hadn’t been wearing pants his ass would be hanging out.

“D’you like it? It’s a cheerleader skirt and I wore it to  _cheer_  you on.” Big grin. “Gimme a K, eheheh.” 

You rub at your face tiredly. “Yeah, I saw that. Way to go you mentally underdeveloped cumsock.” 

“I cheered real hard for you. Now tell me I’m pretty,” he goes and you whap him over the back of his head, because sometimes you have no idea why you’re dating this asshole in the first place. 

“It’s really fucking short,” you point out. No way that thing is regulation. “I don’t think Peixes would-“

John scratches his cheek nervously. “It’s Damara’s.”

There’s a weighty silence as you roll the implications of that over in your mind. There’s only one possible outcome.

“You’ll be dead in a fucking ditch by morning,” you groan. Also probably naked and in a compromising position with a pompom up his ass, but you don’t say that part out loud. (also cousin Dave would probably be photographing the hell out of that. You don’t mention that part, either)

“Well. Well, not really,” John tells you. “She kinda, uh, caught me and then sort of -gave it to me?” 

“What.”

“Said I could keep it, told me she had better ones. At least I think she did, sometimes she’s kinda difficult to understand.”

“And you  _accepted_  it? John. John, no. What the fuck is wrong with you, shit.”

“Whatever dude, you don’t say no to Damara, you know. She’s scary, man.”

“Oh my fucking god,” you repeat, because  _seriously_  this brain addled waste of space is your boyfriend, how did that even happen again? And then you convulsively shiver as a gust of wind lifts your wet jersey away from your body.

John makes a little noise and takes your hand to draw you towards the bleachers. “I got you something,” he says as he scrabbles around near his backpack before thrusting out a crumpled paper bag and a thermos. You blink, taking in the sight of John presenting you with- oh wow. Oh shit, you’re blushing. John sees you are and laughs, grabbing a fistful of your collar to pull you down for another kiss. He tiptoes, you hold his hips and the contents of the bag get a little smushed between your chests in the process. Worth it.

“Vantas.”

Fuck that. John now, hell fucking yes. John’s warm lips and needy kisses, the little noise he makes when you nibble at his lip. But they’re not going away and eventually you break the kiss to glare angrily at whoever is bugging you. Rufioh holds up his palms in that ‘calm your tits bro’ gesture he’s got. His mohawk is still wet and limp along his skull.

“What,” you snarl, “do you  _want_?”

“Just coming over here to tell you coach will close up the locker room if you don’t go shower now, dude,” he says calmly. “Might want to take a romancing break… just saying… unless your boyfriend likes you all sweaty. No judging if he does, you know. Just… yeah.”

John opens his mouth. “Well-“

You clap a hand over it. “Tell Slick I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Sure thing,” he agrees and lopes off again.

Removing your hand reveals your palm slathered with drool. You wipe it on John’s sleeve while thinking you really should go now, because you could really fucking use a shower. You’re starting to reek and shivering in the cold breeze.

“I’m going to go,” you tell John, accepting the bag and thermos from him, your helmet caught under the crook of your arm. Kiss his forehead. “Wait for me, I’ll walk you home.”

He follows you as you stride across the field, backpack bouncing over his shoulder and skates slung around his neck. “Hey, most of team will be gone, right? Maybe I could-“

“No, John.”

“Aw, c’mon. We could-“

“What part of ‘no’ is too difficult for you, you overexcitable pest? Two letters. Only one fucking definition, flex that formidable disaster you call a brain and get with the program,” you say, narrowing your eyes at him. Besides, severely tempting as the offer is, you’re pretty sure he’s being all talk right now. You’ve been taking things slowly, letting them happen as they feel natural and you’re okay with that. 

Also with Slick looming near. Yeah, no. Just thinking about it made your balls invert.  

You leave him pouting outside the locker rooms, strip your shirt off as soon as the door swings closed behind you. Nearly everybody has left by now, so you hastily strip away your gear and head for the showers. Dry off again, struggle into street clothes with your skin still half damp, so they’re wringing around the muscles in your chest and arms.

Practice ran late, so it’s all hazy shadows in the locker rooms when you peek into the paper bag. A cupcake, slightly squashed. Now, you’re fully aware that John has an irrational loathing towards confectionaries. So him giving you the homemade cupcake his father always includes in his lunch is not too far from a whiny preschooler pawning his sprouts off on the dog. You’re red in the face anyway because, well. He could’ve given it to Rose or Vriska, which he always used to do -but now he saves it for you. In the thermos is hot cocoa.

 _Hng_. Dammit. 

As you’re leaving someone finds it necessary to singsong: “Have fun with your  _boyfriend_.” 

Stuffing the whole cupcake into your mouth you flip the fucker off with flourish. Outside John’s put his beanie over his messy hair, clunky headphones cupping his ears. With the torn jeans, yellow Vans and the skates hanging around his shoulders he looks like —well… a skater boy. He’s probably listing to Aerosmith, though. That and he’s still wearing that goddamn skirt.

You walk him home, shoulders bumping.

“Looked good out there today,” John offers after a while, cheeks going pink.

Coming from him that’s sort of hilarious because John knows jack fucking shit about football. Still thinks in terms of goals, bases and ‘those white chalky lines’. Has not a single half-assed idea in which direction your team is supposed to be running or what your position on the team even entails (you’re pretty sure he still thinks you’re the quarterback). Then again, you’ve spend hours watching him fall down a ramp trying to who knows whatever the fuck what on those skates of his, only to have to patch up his lacerated elbows at the end of the day and tell him you think he nearly got it that one time (the time he  _didn’t_  nearly break his dumbass neck, holy hell). Well, John’s pretty good at skating, you’re sure, but he has a penchant for heading for the highest, steepest ramps and trying to do this crazy-upside down thing while balancing on the edge with a hand and needless to say he misses that one a lot.

Idiot.

You hook his pinkie with yours in response and watch him smile from the corner of your eyes. There’s nothing you like so much as seeing him smile, it’s a killer smile, absolutely gorgeous. Lights him straight up and shines from those bright blue eyes. Shit, he’s so beautiful. Also looks wonderful in your team jacket, your name and number emblazoned on the back, way too big around his shoulders.

Your idiot.

Yeah.

 

You might… might ask him to go to prom with you soon.

Not today. But soon.

 

Yeah.

**Author's Note:**

> Based on Aze's [Jockat Vantas AU](http://jockatvantas.tumblr.com).
> 
> Consider this the pilot of the series.


End file.
